


A Century of Drought

by errandofmercy



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies)
Genre: Hate Sex, Interracial By Fantasy Standards, M/M, Power Play
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-19
Updated: 2014-02-22
Packaged: 2018-01-13 01:35:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,884
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1207954
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/errandofmercy/pseuds/errandofmercy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>During his imprisonment in Mirkwood, Thorin Oakenshield finds another way to escape from the Elvenking's clutches. Surprisingly, in the end, they both get what they want. </p><p>It has been a long time since I read The Hobbit and I certainly didn't ship any of these characters back then. I apologize for any misinformation or shortsightedness - this fic is really just a PWP based solely on movie canon. Enjoy the porn and don't look too closely ;)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [flashforeward](https://archiveofourown.org/users/flashforeward/gifts).



It was late when the guards came for him. The night had stretched interminably on, and though the air was full of music and merriment from above, Thorin’s heart had rankled. Locked far below the halls of starlit feasting, he had ground his gauntlets against the bars until his hands were numb. The fading splendor of Mirkwood seemed to him no better than a poisonous swamp, so fraught it was with illusions and Elven serpents. At last, after many hours of raging and some harsh words from the neighboring Balin, he had laid his head on the cool cell wall and fallen into a fretful sleep. It was from this state which he was roughly awoken as two sentinels pulled him from his cell, immobilizing him with an iron grip and a hand over his mouth. They dragged him up to a high landing, from which an elaborate stair wound itself up into obscurity. Thorin bit down hard on the fingers that stifled him and spat upon the ground. The Elf withdrew his hand with a curse.

 

“What is the meaning of this?” he demanded. The fire in his eyes seemed to startle even the inscrutable guards.

 

The sentinel with the bitten hand massaged his wound, regarding him with barely veiled disgust. “The Elvenking requests an audience with you,” he replied. His tone made it clear what he thought of such a decision.

 

The other Elf released him, and Thorin attempted a brief but valiant escape, until a flash of steel from the first guard stopped him in his tracks. “It would be wise for you to comply,” came the subtle threat. Thorin bared his teeth and growled, wishing the Elf’s dagger were in his hands. Unflinching, the guard gestured towards the rising stairwell. “He does not like to be kept waiting.”

 

Incensed, Thorin reluctantly began to climb the steps. The guards watched his ascent carefully, still poised to seize him should another fit of disobedience arise. As he rose above the dungeons and cellars, a darkly beautiful landscape greeted his eyes, of mossy waterfalls and shaded copses tamed into archways and winding passages. But the scenery was wasted on him; Thorin had no room in his heart for trees and moss amid his smoldering rage.

 

As he crested the stair, a long corridor came into view, flanked by two more stern and silent guards. Armed with bows and elegant, deadly swords, they were watchful but made no move to hinder his passage. He stamped along the starlit hall, bathed in cool light, until he came to a doorway framed in shimmering silver drapes. The sight of the craftsmanship upon the door, its elaborate carvings and runes, set Thorin’s teeth on edge - it was unmistakably the work of his people. More proof of the Elvenking’s deceit and trickery. It stood slightly ajar, and Thorin pushed his way through suspiciously.

 

A cavernous chamber spread before him, its polished walls of living wood illuminated with elegant torches and dappled starlight. Silks hung lavishly over a large alcove to one side, obscuring the view to a bedchamber, while in the center of the room lay a sunken stair and a circular pool. The Elvenking sat crownless before him, immersed in the dark water. His arms rested on the pool’s edge beside a silver tray that held a wineskin and two goblets. A gleam crept into his bright eyes as he registered Thorin’s shock and disgust.

 

“You certainly took your time,” Thranduil announced in his strange voice, halfway between gentleness and mockery. Thorin barely restrained himself from charging the Elf. “Come closer, Thorin, son of Thrain. I would speak with you.”

 

Thorin approached the pool with mingled caution and distaste. “I have nothing to say to you,” he growled, “that would not have you calling for your guardsmen.” He took small pleasure in knowing that his careworn boots were leaving a trail of muddy chunks across the pristine floor.

 

Thranduil cocked his head obliquely to one side in a gesture that resembled an inquisitive bird examining a juicy worm. He reached for the wineskin and filled the goblets, which were wrought of silver and sage-green glass. “Then listen,” he said dismissively, “and drink.” He offered the goblet to Thorin, who balked angrily.

 

“I will not drink of your sullied wine any more than I will take heed of your poisoned words!” he spat. Thranduil’s gaze darkened, but he merely raised the goblet to his own lips and drank. His throat bobbed as he swallowed and a pink sliver of tongue darted out to lick his full lips. Then he leaned forward and set the glass at Thorin’s feet. The ends of his long, golden hair dragged across the surface of the water like the branches of a willow.

 

“You will find it quite… restorative, I think,” he replied evenly, serving himself as well. “I do not wish to poison you, Master Dwarf. At the moment, my desire lies... elsewhere.”

 

Thorin’s blood raced with anger. He stood his ground for a long moment, until the unflinching gaze of the Elvenking at last began to unnerve him. “I should kick this wine into your smirking face,” the Dwarf seethed. “But for the sake of my companions, I will not.” Slowly, hesitantly, he bent down to retrieve the goblet and took a tentative sip. After so many days of stale crumbs and scummy water, the flavor of elf-wine was miraculous. His tongue awoke from its long slumber with a tingle of joy, and he felt a treacherous softness spread down his throat and into his belly. Thranduil noted his reaction with a glimmer of satisfaction.

 

“I am pleased to see that your wisdom has won out over your temper,” the Elvenking continued. He drank slowly and deeply from his own goblet, leaving Thorin to languish in silence save for the sound of swallowing. Then the Elf fixed him with a powerful stare. “The water is warm. Won’t you join me?” It sounded more like a command than a request.

 

The Dwarf gave a harsh, barking laugh. “What fell game is this, treacherous Elf?” he demanded. “Do you mean to drown me in your own bathtub?  My armor is as heavy as one of your sentinels!”

 

“Don’t be foolish,” Thranduil replied coolly. “Take off your clothes.”

 

Thorin’s brow creased on consternation. What new trickery was afoot here? None of his battle training or his years among Men could have prepared him to defeat this strange and slippery creature. Everything about this place seemed a trap, and yet he could not find a solid reason to explain why. He stood stoutly at the pool’s edge, glaring defiantly into the Elf’s penetrating gaze. “I will do no such thing.”

 

A smug smile crept across Thranduil’s fair face. “Ah, but I think you will,” he said with mocking gentleness. Behind the sinister mirth he clearly felt at humiliating Thorin, an otherworldly fire flickered in his bright eyes. “You see, you have no choice. Your only chance of escaping my forest lay in parley, which you so miserably aborted with your temper. And though I do not doubt your stubbornness, I suspect that you would not throw away the lives and futures of your kinsmen for the sake of a little soak.”

 

Thorin’s eyes blazed. Never in his life had he felt so exposed. The clever, cruel Elf had truly found his pressure point. With agonizing reluctance, he turned his back to the pool and began to shed first his coat, then his outer robe, his armor and his jerkin. As each garment pooled on the floor, he felt his skin grow hot with shame. He could feel Thranduil’s eyes on his back like torches, taking in the sight of his bare flesh with all the anticipation of a predator about to devour its prey. At last Thorin pulled off his boots, releasing a cloud of dust and sour air. He stared down at himself, at the stains of travel that marked his skin and the timeworn trousers that hung from his hips. Thranduil’s voice came from behind him, soft but still laced with mockery.

 

“Those will have to go as well,” he crooned. “And do hurry up, I’ve been patient enough with you as it is. You are beginning to _vex_ me.”

 

The Dwarf felt his face flush with embarrassment. The Elvenking’s obvious delight in his humiliation made his skin crawl. If he debased himself this way, he would never be able to forgive himself. But would he be able to forgive sentencing his kinsfolk to a lifetime of misery and imprisonment?

 

Screwing his eyes shut, he removed his belts and stepped out of his trousers. The cool night air whispered at his exposed skin, causing gooseflesh to rise all over his body. He spread his palms over his naked thighs to keep his hands from trembling.

 

“Very good,” came the smug voice from behind him. “Now come.”

 

Thorin was furious, but helpless, like a wild animal ensnared by a mercurial child. He would have his revenge for this, he promised himself as he turned and slipped into the wretched pool. The Elvenking and all his kin would pay.

 


	2. Chapter 2

Thorin gritted his teeth as his treacherous body sang with relief. The perfumed water enveloped him like a lover, welcoming and warm as his own blood. He failed to suppress a moan of relief as the tension he had been carrying for so long began to dissipate.

 

The Elvenking regarded him hungrily, watching the spread of his hair and beard as they floated on the surface of the water. “Your journey has not befouled you as much as I expected,” he noted with genuine surprise, “though I am certain it has been many moons since last you bathed.” He sipped languidly from his goblet.

 

“My people do not concern themselves with vanity,” Thorin retorted. “We are more interested in hard work than ostentation and conceit.” Though he wanted ardently to keep his hackles up against his captor, the Dwarf felt the sting draining from his words as the ache left his tired muscles. He was being set up, but for what purpose he knew not. He could not guess why the Elf would be staging such an odd meeting and forcing him into an even more defenseless position, but it could only be for ill. Still, he felt himself being lulled by the warmth and sweet scents that surrounded him.

 

“Of course,” the Elvenking responded with a dubious expression. “The ceaseless tattooing, piercing and bedecking of beards among your kin is purely prosaic.” Draining his goblet, he inclined toward the doorway and spoke a brief command in the Elven tongue. A footman, a tall and inscrutable Elf, swept into the room bearing a basket woven of silver-hued twigs. Wordlessly, he deposited the basket within Thorin’s reach, and replaced the empty wineskin with a fresh one. Thranduil took no visible notice of him, continuing to stare unyieldingly at the Dwarf.

 

Thorin inspected the basket’s contents with a fresh wave of consternation. It contained several vials of perfumed oils, a sponge-like toadstool the size of his palm, a comb carven of antler, and a long roll of soft white cloth. He looked up at Thranduil in disbelief. “What is this? Do you expect me to anoint myself with perfumes like some Elf maiden? What purpose does this serve?”

 

A brief flash of fatigue crossed the Elvenking’s face, to Thorin’s surprise. He gave a small sigh. “I believe it would do you good,” he answered. “You certainly are proving... resistant to my hospitality.”

 

“I do not trust you,” Thorin countered.

 

Thranduil’s bold, sculpted eyebrows rose. “I do not require your trust.”

 

“This is all some sort of strange trick,” the Dwarf insisted. “It must be. Why would you do this?”

 

“I have my reasons,” the Elvenking dodged. He stretched his sinuous arms and folded them elegantly behind his head, sinking down into the water until his golden hair fanned out in a great arc. “Make yourself presentable.” He closed his eyes, droplets of water clinging to his long eyelashes. “I will wait.”

 

Thorin looked at him for a long moment, trying to make sense of the Elf’s mercurial behavior. First impatient, then resigned, snide and supercilious but strangely passive. He watched Thranduil’s impassive face, noted the slow rise and fall of his shoulders as he breathed, his body disappearing beneath the water’s refracted surface. Reluctantly, he sniffed the vials until he found one that smelled darker and muskier than the rest. He poured a few drops of oil on the toadstool and slowly began to scrub himself clean.

 

The gentle abrasion made his skin tingle with life, and the oil’s scent was pleasantly heady. Thorin scrubbed his arms, chest and back until they glowed pink, then bent to work on his lower half. As he began to work the oil into his unruly hair, he noticed that Thranduil’s eyes were no longer closed - his pale gaze was fixed on Thorin with a strangely doleful expression. The Elf did not wait for him to inquire further, but spoke suddenly in a voice shadowed with sorrow.

 

“You have spoken to me at length of your hatred for Elves,” he said, watching rivulets of water trickle down through Thorin’s beard and back into the pool. “You have called me many unsavory things since your company was brought into my keep. False, thieving, dishonorable…”

 

Thorin wrung his hair dry, holding the Elf’s gaze. “All true,” he said simply.

 

A shadow fell over Thranduil’s face. “Perhaps. But your sight is narrow, and your years are few. I have lived five hundred lifetimes of your kin, and yet you still doubt my wisdom.” He straightened from his recumbent position, water sloughing off his shoulders as his chest rose out of the pool. Streams of damp hair clung to his well-formed muscles, curling around taut, rosy nipples and framing his slender neck with gold. “You cannot understand the gravity of immortal life, the scales on which our deeds are weighed. The crown of the Woodland Realm,” he said, a sudden anguish twisting his face, “is heavy as a pillory.”

 

Thorin’s eyes narrowed at this display of theatrics. “I hope you have not brought me here merely to listen to your kingly woes,” he ground out. “I have little sympathy for one who hides beneath a canopy of poisoned trees, waiting for the world’s problems to solve themselves.” Though he stood shoulder deep in the water, he was undaunted by the towering Elf. “You are the lord of these people, and they are sworn to your service. Whether their lives span a hundred or ten thousand years, is it not your right to command them as you will?” With a rush of boldness, Thorin took a step toward his jailer. “What errand could be more noble than the restoration of an ancient kingdom, what end more glorious than the rebirth of an industry that would put wealth and splendor in your hands? Your soldiers would gladly ride into battle for such a promise.”

 

Thranduil’s eyes were large and luminous, full of an otherworldly sorrow that Thorin could not identify. A sudden shaft of moonlight broke through the ceiling, illuminating the water and the two bodies within it. Thorin tried not to look, but his eyes were drawn to the rippling contours of the Elf’s naked limbs, pale and smooth as porcelain. He bit back a sudden wave of desire, appalled by his own reaction.

 

The Elf slid onto his knees with a splash, drawing so close that his hot, sweet breath made gooseflesh rise on the Dwarf’s skin. “If you go to the Lonely Mountain,” he murmured, “you will die. Your kinsmen will die, your Halfling, and the lake-dwellers as well. Even if you slay the dragon and take your treasure, the scars of his fire will haunt you until the end of your days.”

 

Thorin stared back defiantly. “It will not be so. We have a fighting chance.”

 

“Do you not see?” Thranduil continued, grief filling his features. “Even if you did reclaim your kingdom, you would not escape your mortal fate. And just as every other time I have offered my help, my allegiance, my friendship to a mortal, I would feel the bitter sting of death anew.”

 

Thorin straightened. The Elf’s closeness was making it difficult to focus on the conversation. Though he strained against it, he could feel his body beginning to respond to the perfumed warmth of the pool and the strange vulnerability in those great blue eyes. His ablutions had rekindled the sensitivity of his flesh, and now each lap and ebb of the water felt tantalizing and magnified.

 

“I know the habits and proclivities of Dwarves,” Thranduil continued, raising a dripping hand from beneath the water to stroke his cheek. Thorin wished he could have lashed out at the unseemly gesture, but he found himself transfixed at the sensation of warm, delicate fingers stroking his face and beard. “Perhaps you would take a wife, to bear an heir to your throne under the mountain. Or perhaps you would devote yourself to industry, and seek pleasure among your fellow craftsmen. But these things are mere phantoms in the eyes of an Elf, so brief and fragile. And always doomed to end in loneliness and death.” Thranduil’s hand fell limply to his side. His face was stricken with an expression of peculiar longing, a desire so tragic it had curdled all hope of fulfillment. Despite his distrust and hatred, Thorin felt his heart softening for this aggrieved and embittered creature.

 

“Mortal life is rich for those who are born into it,” he said softly. His voice had become thick and his throat tight with sudden desire. “You speak only of endings. But there is more to us than your pronouncements. Our lives and passions may be brief, but they are also vivid.”

 

In response, Thranduil took hold of Thorin’s hand and placed it on his own hip. His voice was electric, laced with fear and desperation. He stared into Thorin’s eyes with an intensity that nearly burned.

 

“Then show me.”

 

 


	3. Chapter 3

All thought of Thorin’s quest and kinsmen fled from his mind. The Elvenking’s head dipped down and Thorin felt the soft, insistent nuzzle of a nose upon his neck and shoulder. Thranduil breathed deeply of the Dwarf’s fresh and heady scent, sliding his cheek against Thorin’s beard until their mouths were scarcely a hairbreadth apart. For a moment he paused, not unsure, it seemed, but waiting for Thorin to give his consent. As willing as he was to take prisoners, apparently this king did not delight in taking pleasure by force. A fresh wave of desire took Thorin at this realization, and he darted forward to claim the Elf’s mouth in a hungry kiss.

 

Thorin felt the hip beneath his palm shift tentatively as their lips met. Thranduil’s lips, soft and full as ripe fruit, pushed back upon his own with tantalizing delicacy. The sweet and earthy flavor of wine was still upon his tongue as Thorin began fervently to explore his mouth. The Elf’s brow creased with the potency of his desire, the almost-pained expression driving Thorin to further madness.

 

Thranduil’s fingers tangled in Thorin’s wavy russet hair as the Dwarf pulled away and began to trail kisses down his throat. With each kiss, he gave a gentle nip with his teeth that caused the Elf’s hips to snap forward unconsciously. Thranduil’s eyes were squeezed shut as if in torment, but his mouth hung open wantonly. His hands ghosted down the chiseled muscles of Thorin’s back, mapping and kneading every inch of firm flesh. Then he glided across the Dwarf’s sides and began almost worshipfully to stroke the soft fur that covered his chest and stomach. Thorin noted this unabashed adulation with smug amusement. Clearly the touted hatred of his kin was more... complex than it appeared.

 

As Thranduil’s hands dipped beneath the still-warm surface of the water to caress his flank, Thorin’s gaze was drawn to the Elf’s submerged abdomen. His eyes widened as he took in the sight of a long, slender cock stirring between the Elf’s lithe legs. He longed to reach out and touch it, but he was also seized by a pang of fear at its great length. He hoped that the Elvenking’s plans for this night did not include spitting him like a stuck pig. Thranduil gently enfolded his own turgid cock with one hand, and Thorin’s eyes fluttered closed. The Elf seemed to be returning to his senses in some capacity. As if perceiving Thorin’s thoughts, he leaned in close and murmured into the Dwarf’s ear.

 

“Fear not,” he whispered. “I will do you no harm… unless you wish it.” He drew his arm around Thorin’s waist and pulled their bodies together. The water lapped and spilled over the edges of the pool at the movement.

 

The sudden, complete contact made Thorin nearly dizzy. His hands groped for purchase and found it, spreading possessively over the soft skin of the Elf’s shoulder blades. He leaned his head against Thranduil’s chest as the hand that held him began a slow, agonizing slide up and down his length. Thranduil held him fast, burying one supporting hand at the base of his neck while the other stroked and teased him.  He breathed shallowly into the hollow of Thranduil’s neck as his legs began to tremble with need. Then he felt the Elf’s hips begin to grind against him, and the hot, tightening shaft of Thranduil’s cock rise to meet his own. As they touched, Thorin let out a low growl, and the Elf gave an answering moan. Thorin was still bewildered by the intensity of his desire, but his own need was growing so quickly he had little time to reflect upon it. He pulled away slightly and gazed over Thranduil’s shoulder to the chamber beyond. Beads of sweat had formed on his skin, mingling with the sweet water of the bath in a clinging film.

 

A look of dismay crossed the Elvenking’s features as the contact was broken, but he quickly followed Thorin’s gaze and intuited his thoughts. With a perfumed cascade, he stood, water sloughing away and revealing his flushed golden skin in all its perfection. “Come,” he said, climbing nimbly out of the pool. “The bed is not far.” He offered a hand, but Thorin pulled himself up out of the water, favoring Thranduil with a defiant smirk.

 

Dripping and suddenly chilled, they made their way quickly beyond the silky curtains and into the bedchamber. The room was a large alcove, festooned with living branches and lavishly decorated with curling veins of silver and green stone. At the center lay a palatial bed, piled with plush cushions and linens of purest white. Thorin barely had time to take in other details of the room - a tall arboreal display of wine, a gnarled tree trunk on which Thranduil’s silver robes were hung, a carpet of soft moss beneath his feet - before the Elvenking had draped a length of downy white cloth about his shoulders and pulled him towards the bed. Thranduil directed him to sit, and Thorin watched hungrily as the Elf toweled off the dampness of the pool from his glowing skin. To Thorin’s great surprise, Thranduil discarded the cloth and knelt at his feet, gazing up at him with fierce desire. Thorin was shocked at the seeming subservience of the gesture. He had entered this place as a prisoner, and now he felt strangely that somehow he had been given control. With his chest quietly heaving in anticipation, Thranduil parted Thorin’s legs and ducked his fair head downward. As his lips closed around Thorin’s head, all thoughtful reflection fled, and he was given over to pure, fiery pleasure.

 

Thorin’s hands clenched the soft white fabric of the coverlet as Thranduil slowly devoured him. The Elf, it seemed, was reasonably practiced in this art, and it briefly occurred to Thorin that five thousand years of life would have provided ample opportunity for sexual exploration. The Elf’s slender hands held back the thatch of coarse hair that threatened to burst forth at any moment, while his tongue swirled and lapped along Thorin’s length with lascivious inventiveness. Each time a moan or harsh cry escaped Thorin’s lips, the Elf’s body shook with a frisson of arousal. Finally he relented, and in one smooth motion, took Thorin fully into his mouth. The Dwarf keened as he was subsumed by blinding heat, and his vision blurred as he felt the back of the Elf’s throat constrict for his pleasure. He found his hands reaching unbidden for that golden head, gently urging him on and carding through his silky hair. Their rhythm intensified, until Thorin felt nearly frantic with desire - he could feel his release building like an oncoming earthquake, so powerful it threatened to shatter his bones. When Thranduil abruptly released him, disconnecting with a sticky, hollow sound, he was so disoriented he could only stare.

 

Fortunately, it was not, as he briefly wondered, some cruel trick of humiliation. Thranduil wiped the traces of syrupy effusion on the back of his hand, a look of scandalous satisfaction on his flushed face. As he climbed up onto the bed, Thorin could see that the exercise had been mutually beneficial - the Elf’s cock was hard and erect as a stalagmite in a mountain cave. Thorin struggled to regain control of his trembling legs, and scrambled up the luxuriant mattress to where the Elf was uncorking a small silver flask.

 

“More wine?” Thorin wondered aloud, but Thranduil’s softly mocking smile made him feel foolish at once. The Elf slid down upon a large white pillow, tipping a few drops of fragrant oil from the flask into his palm. He beckoned Thorin to come closer, until the Dwarf knelt over him in a strange reversal of roles. The sight of the Elf’s body, naked and taut with desire, made Thorin’s already-racing blood pound even faster through his veins. Thranduil reached for him, his slick palm methodically coating Thorin’s cock. Then Thorin watched in breathless amazement as the Elf turned his hand on himself. He spread the oil liberally over his own organ, and reached below to massage it carefully into his entrance. His eyes shut tight as his own fingers ghosted over the sensitive opening, and when he looked upon Thorin again, the strange sadness had returned to his eyes, though this time it was mixed with ardent need. He pulled Thorin on top of him, pressing their bodies together in a moment of tenderness.

 

“I must warn you,” he said, his voice sounding distant although his body was so near. “Though I will be glad to give you release, you may not succeed in granting mine.” Thorin looked at him without comprehension, though the sorrow in his face was painfully clear.

 

“What do you mean?” he asked, stroking Thranduil’s hair idly.

 

Thranduil brushed his nose against Thorin’s beard affectionately. “As the ages have passed, I have become rather… _difficult_ to satisfy. I only wish to tell you that it would be no fault of yours.”

 

Thorin sensed that this affliction was more profound than Thranduil cared to admit. “How long has it been?” he asked with genuine concern.

 

Thranduil’s eyes were downcast. “A hundred years, at least,” he muttered. Thorin tried to suppress his shock and a sudden wave of sympathy. A century of denial was a cruel punishment, even for one so blessed with power and immortality.

 

He planted a kiss on Thranduil’s smooth forehead. “I shall take that as a challenge,” he said with a smirk. Then he reached between them and finally took hold of Thranduil’s long, straining cock. The Elf started at the sudden contact, but Thorin held him fast with his free hand. The oil was slippery and carried a spicy, arousing scent, making each sensation more fluid and intense. Thorin began experimentally, tracing the contours of his cock and stones and enjoying the weight and substance of them in his hand. He opened his senses to the Elf’s responses, noting each shiver in his hips and twitch in his face as he explored. Thranduil moaned openly as his strokes became more deliberate and he rose to place his knees between the Elf’s parted thighs. While he slowly pumped his hand from base to tip, he began to caress the soft skin below, sweeping his oiled fingers over the crease of Thranduil’s thigh and the smooth crescent of his buttock. The Elf’s hips began to undulate beneath him, rolling forward languidly with each stroke. Then Thorin placed a fingertip over the tense, taut skin of his entrance, and gently pushed inside. Thranduil stiffened, his eyes flying open to stare uneasily at the ceiling. He was suddenly very still.

 

Thorin waited for a long moment until the Elf’s body finally softened. Thranduil was no blushing virgin - no doubt he understood that the brief discomfort would give way to greater pleasure. The iron grip around his finger relaxed incrementally, though it was still blissfully tight. Thorin’s mouth watered and his cock twitched with the thought of what was to come. He continued his careful ministrations until the Elf had grown fully accustomed to his presence, small sounds of pleasure escaping his throat as he moved in a quickening circuit. Thranduil’s hand rose to grasp Thorin’s arm, urging him ever deeper. Thorin added another digit, and then another, until the Elf’s entrance was pliable and slick. His cock hung heavy between his legs, aching to be put to use.

 

He looked searchingly into Thranduil’s eyes. “Are you ready?” he asked huskily.

 

Thranduil’s fair face was transformed with need. There was no trace of the mighty king here, only a beautiful creature driven mad with desire, vulnerable and desperate for release. His limpid blue eyes bore into Thorin’s heart as he clutched the Dwarf’s hips. “Please,” he whispered.

 

It was all the confirmation Thorin required. With gritted teeth, he guided his cock to the welcoming opening and slowly pushed inside. The heat and pressure that greeted him made his eyes roll back, and for a moment he was so overwhelmed he feared he might fall. The lines of discomfort in Thranduil’s face faded into an expression of pure bliss. They breathed together for a long moment, feeling nothing but the press of skin and the rush of each other’s pounding blood. Then Thorin regained himself, and gingerly began to move in slow, measured thrusts. His hand returned to Thranduil’s cock, which stood taut and straight as an arrow, and he resumed his ministrations. Thranduil moved in response to his thrusts with practiced ease, but from his expression he seemed wholly surprised by the intensity of his own pleasure. Thorin could spare no thought for irony, so consumed was he by the sensations that assailed him. His pace accelerated and he felt his release approaching like an avalanche, compelling him to bear down on the Elf with more force than was courteous. His hand pumped frantically at Thranduil’s cock, from which a trail of silver liquid had begun to seep. The Elf matched his pace, pulling him deeper and threatening to crush him with his great slender legs. High moans issued from his slack-jawed mouth as his breath came in short barks.

 

Suddenly, Thorin’s knee slipped forward without warning. It was a serendipitous accident - as he thrust again, the change of angle caused Thranduil to arch his back sharply and nearly scream with pleasure. The sound and the sensation sent sparks of white flame down Thorin’s spine, and he roared as the rock-slide of his climax fell upon him. The Elf’s fingers dug wantonly into his sides, and their bodies slammed together as Thorin shook with his spending. With a broken cry of relief, Thorin felt Thranduil shudder beneath him, and a thick, silvery effusion erupted from within him, coating Thorin’s fingers and the Elf’s smooth stomach. Together they rocked, riding out the last shocks of their pleasure, until Thranduil fell silent and still. Beneath his heavy-lidded eyes, Thorin saw the glistening trails of tears.

 

Reluctantly, Thorin slowly withdrew, thick white seed trailing behind him as he left. Thranduil reached for him, his long arms pinning Thorin in an embrace as he trembled through a few more waves of pleasure. Then the Elf became limp as a fish, staring in disbelief into the middle distance while Thorin stroked his face and hair.

 

“Well,” he said smugly, “It looks like the drought is over.”

 

Thranduil regarded him blankly for a moment, then comprehension dawned in his dazed eyes. He gave a small smile. It seemed that in his weakened state, he was too disoriented to formulate a reply.

 

Thorin retrieved the damp cloths from the pool and cleaned himself briskly. Thranduil was slower to take his up, and when he did, his movements were clumsy and uncoordinated. Thorin doubted that any of his subjects would recognize their graceful Elvenking. Charitably, he nestled himself beside the Elf and helped him wipe away the last traces of their passion. Thranduil was as pliant and tame in his arms as a drowsy child. Thus restored, Thorin wrapped his arm around Thranduil’s slender waist and fell into a gentle slumber. The last thing he perceived before the haze of sleep was the fuzzy outline of a keyring hanging from a bedside hook.

 

***

 

A ray of morning sunlight filtered through the canopy and fell upon Thranduil’s sleeping brow, rousing him with a start. He sat up abruptly, taking note of several things in quick succession - the empty bed, his bare flesh, the clamor of guardsman’s boots in the hall. His golden hair flew as he whipped his head towards the sentinel who had just come sprinting into his chambers. The young Elf made no mention of his debauched state, but his face was stricken and his voice wary.

 

“My Lord, the Dwarf prisoners have escaped! They were freed from their cells in the night. We believe they took the river passage, but -”

 

Thranduil raised a hand, cutting him off. The realization of what had happened weighed heavy on his heart. “ _Nah lerya_ ,” he said distantly. “They did not escape.” The guard looked at him blankly for a long moment. “I let them go.” Thranduil gathered the bedclothes to him, fighting off waves of conflicting emotion. “Return to your post,” he ordered the guard, who left with a confused nod. As he passed through the curtained doorway, Thranduil could see that Thorin’s clothes and boots were gone. All that remained of their encounter were the muddy trails on the floor, the rumpled towels by the bed, and the sweet ache that was growing beneath his spine.

 

His mind flew too far, too fast, to the trail to Lake-town, to the Lonely Mountain and the fiery fate that lay ahead for the Dwarf and his companions. The image of Thorin’s face, burned and scarred by dragon-fire, pierced through his thoughts like a Morgul blade. Despite his anger, and his pride, bitter tears sprang to his eyes and a cry of anguish curdled in his throat. He buried his head in his hands, cursing the foolish mortal and his own treacherous heart.

 

The century of drought was at an end.

 

 


End file.
